The first thing you do is you get the right sort of water. Ponyville has wonderful spring water, that comes up through the chalk beds, but it is too hard. Twilight distills hers in the laboratory downstairs and then adds just the right amount of impurities to give it a good bite.
The princess always says the water makes the tea. She got hers from a spring, high in the mountains, a spring only she knew about. A little secret, she told Twilight, a little something special, she kept just for herself. It was just water, she said, but she had come to see the spring as a friend, ever constant but still changing. She remembered centuries with a bitter tang, and others where the water had a sulfurous edge, as the meltwater seeped through stone and leeched out various tastes and flavors.
Then you boil the water adding salt, just as much as would fit on the edge of a knife. Each tea requires its own temperature, but whatever it is you must boil it first. Twilight heaves the heavy iron kettle on the hob, using her hooves clumsily. She could lift it with magic so very easily, but she never does. Back in Canterlot, the princess never did. She gets the fire going and waits. Her mother always said that a watched kettle never boils, but Twilight’s not watching, not really. The pale light of the morning lends an unreal air to everything, and she lets her eyes unfocus. Breathe in. Breathe out. Soon, she can hear a faint murmur from the kettle, a little private song just for her. She remembers that sound, the snug mundane comfort of it. It still helps, a little bit, even now.
The princess always made the tea herself. Always. Twilight never asked why. It never occurred to her to ask why the ruler of the entire country would do such a menial task. It seemed right that she would take time, just after raising the sun, and make tea for her student and herself. And while she made the tea she would talk, but never about things here and now. Instead she would…remember. Sometimes time seemed to lay so heavily on her, that Twilight wondered if the princess was even aware that Twilight was there. And then, as if she knew, Celestia would lock eyes with her charge and smile. Celestia was rarely seen without a smile, and Twilight had built up an entire atlas of them in her head. Kind smiles, proud smiles, honest grins of amusement, mischievous smirks and a thousand variations on the same joyful theme. But this was a special smile and fit nowhere on Twilight’s maps and charts. It was a special morning smile and it was just for Twilight and nopony else. Twilight did ask, when she got older and the magic of it became commonplace if no less wondrous, why Celestia only spoke of ancient times and long lost friends. Celestia looked almost surprised to hear the question. After pausing for thought, swirling warm water around the teapot, she replied that she never thought the day truly started until you’ve had your first cup of tea. Until then, the sun may be in the sky, but she still saw it as just barely nighttime—the time for dreams and memories and…She fell silent then and it was as if a cloud had passed in front of the Sun. Twilight didn’t understand that silence, but she remembered it. And, years later, in a ruined hall deep in the Everfree she finally understood and took pride in the understanding.
You always warm the pot. It is a little thing, the princess said, but it is important as little things so often are. Without the fire’s embrace the water starts to cool, faster than you might think, too. And each tea has a particular temperature that suits it. Too high and the tea is scalded and the flavor bruised. Too low and the flavor is flat and uninspired. So you have to use water at just the right temperature and get the pot at just the right temperature and get them to come together at just the right time. Twilight uses a precisely calibrated thermometer for this, carefully measuring until the water gets to eighty degrees.
The Princess doesn’t need a thermometer. She would pull the kettle aside and continue talking about a game of chess that decided the fate of a kingdom, a flower that bloomed once every hundred years in the dead of night or how the eldest and the mightiest of the dragon emperors learned how to cry. And Twilight would listen, mouth slightly open and eyes wide, as time flaked and swirled around them like snow. And then, no matter how deep in the story the princess would, without so much as a pause, reach out to the water which had attained just the right temperature. And every time Twilight gave a little start of surprise, because every time she would forget about kettles and tea and time itself, so lost was she in the words.
Twilight keeps her tea in copper tins lined with glass. The tins were a gift from the princess and Twilight still marvels at them. They are like her, she thinks. Simple. Unadorned. Twilight reaches out towards the tin with jasmine tea. She makes a show of checking the label, though she knows she got the right one. It is in the same place every time. She takes out a copper spoon used for this and nothing else and carefully measures three spoonfuls. One for her. One for the pot. One for the princess. Habit dictated that there should be three spoonfuls and hope didn’t have the heart to disagree.
Princess Celestia loves tea. This is the little bit of trivia, the little bit of personal information everypony knows about the princess. It’s almost a joke, something for ponies to recall with fondness about their beloved princess. And they do love her. Everypony does. And loving tea so much, the princess has a tea for every occasion. A tea for work, a tea for talking, even a tea for arguing. And, most importantly, a tea for waking up. She only ever drank jasmine tea in the early mornings and only ever did so with Twilight. A few times when she was quite ill Twilight would awaken to find the princess at her bedside waiting patiently, teapot at hoof. She always wondered why this was so important to the princess, but she never dared ask. Asking would break the magic of it. For once in her entire life, Twilight the scholar didn’t want to know. She does wonder, now, if the princess drinks it still. If she even notices that Twilight is no longer there.
You pour the water, gently, ever so gently, over the leaves, swirling them slowly around the teapot. You never use a wire basket or a muslin bag, the princess said. The leaves need room to move around. Time is also important, as important as temperature. Black tea is robust and will take as much as six minutes. But jasmine is delicate, gentle stuff. The princess always seemed to know just how long to leave it steeping. Twilight couldn’t tell by instinct, but she had, with some effort, determined that it takes about seventy-four seconds for the tea to steep properly. She’s sitting now, her mane not even properly combed, sleep still clinging to her eyes and watching the stopwatch unblinkingly. Sixty-two. Time to lift. Seventy. Pour. The liquid hits the silver strainer and a small jot of it spills onto the countertop. Two cups, the liquid in them the color of pale gold. Seventy-four. Done. Two perfect cups of jasmine tea with just a few fragments of leaf floating on the surface. The strainer is built to allow for this small imperfection. The annoyance of the odd leaf helps us appreciate the tea more, the princess said. The imperfection makes something better. Easier to love. Twilight never understood. What did the princess know of imperfection?
Twilight spoke to the princess more often than anypony else. She taught her, answered questions and posed some of her own. But mornings were special. What Celestia did wasn’t like telling stories. There were hardly any beginnings and never any ends. They were memories and Celestia would sort and sift through them like a normal pony might through an old photo album, sparing a fond smile for one and the glisten of an unshed tear for another. There wasn’t much significance to them, sometimes. Celestia would skip over a war that ravaged a continent and talk instead about a peculiar game she saw foals play two thousand years ago in a field that’s now a desert. Or about the amazing sound a sudden rainfall makes in Zebrica and the smell of the dust just as the water hits it. But important or not, the memories were always her. As much her as that kind smile or those graceful wings or the smell of jasmine and sandalwood. The memories were like a warm cloak there for her every morning, wrapping her in safety and affection.
Twilight stares at the two cups, steam gently rising above them in two narrow wreaths which, buffeted by an errant gust of wind, twirl together. She closes her eyes and inhales. She holds that breath as long as she can, unwilling to let go. At length, she can bear it no longer and lets it all out in one long shudder. She then grasps the teacups in her telekinesis and gently tips them over into the sink. She doesn’t like jasmine tea, and never did. Carefully, so very carefully, she puts the cups away for next time. She dries her eyes, which had gotten unaccountably wet and goes off to sort books and do other sensible, reasonable things.